


All Our Times Do Come.

by DoesItSaySassOnMyUniform



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Basically Cato wins, Cato not dealing, Drama, Gen, Katniss died, Maybe PTSD?, Sassy Haymitch, Suspense, i guess?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-29
Updated: 2015-12-23
Packaged: 2018-05-03 23:46:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5311646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoesItSaySassOnMyUniform/pseuds/DoesItSaySassOnMyUniform
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a brutal win, in which he killed the Capitol's very own favourite The Girl On Fire, Cato is crowned Victor of the 74th Hunger Games. Katniss is dead. He made sure of it. Dead, and far away in some Capitol morturary or other.<br/>Yet...<br/>He sees her, clear as day in front of him. Blood drips from the cut on her cheek, a cut he put there.<br/>She is dead.<br/>So why is she in front of him, silent and still.<br/>He's not crazy.<br/>He can't be.<br/>Right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So. This is this weird thing I started out of boredom, and am now compelled to finish. I do have plans. Also, there is nowhere near enough Cato fanfiction out there, which is a shame because he had the potential to be quite a complex character, and in my opinion show the behind the scenes workings of the games and the capitol. 
> 
> Anyway, hope you enjoy. leave a comment if you like it or hate it, and if you do like it, please leave a kudos.

The first time he saw her, he walked into a wall. He felt his skin go taut, felt the blood drain away from his face, rushing towards his brain. His fingers scraped across the delicately painted plaster, and he pushed away. It couldn’t be. His body trembled, the sound of his heart pounding in his ears. 

_She was dead._

He couldn’t stop the small sound that tried to break from his throat, but he could clench his jaw to stop anyone from noticing. Not that there was anyone with him. He was all alone. Except for her.  
She stood there, motionless, blood dripping from a cut on her cheek. The cut he put there. A necklace of interwoven bruises adorned her throat, and he followed the line of blood all the way down, to where it stained her collar. This wasn’t right. He had killed her. His very standing there proved it. There could only be one victor, and he hadn’t allowed it to be anyone but him.  
Desperate to look away from her vague grey eyes, he cast a frantic glance around him. Surely there had to be someone else here. Surely they wouldn’t have left him completely unattended, newly crowned victor after all. Someone else had to be seeing this.  
His hands pulled on his suit pants _\- and wouldn’t his stylist just love that-_ and he took a step forward, no matter how his legs tried to lock into place. He had gotten through the games, he could get through this. Straightening his shoulders, he took another, and another, until he was directly in front of her. She had no response. Her eyes didn’t even lift to meet his, and he felt a shiver go up his spine how empty they were. He could recall those very eyes matching his, full of determination, hatred and spite. Remembered how even as his hands wrapped around her neck, Loverboy gone, she glared at him with all her might. Had felt the quiet relief as finally, they became empty. Now, looking into the dark void in front of him, he felt nothing but terror.  
His breath was ragged, and he noticed that not a hair moved on her head. She was frozen, detached and out of his reach. Eyes drifting to the cut on her cheek, he gazed at the blood oozing from the jagged cut he had created. The only thing that moved. She didn’t even breathe. 

_What are you?_

Had he gone insane? Did one even notice the madness as it took over? Surely he would. Yet as his eyes scoured her form, still in the tattered clothes they had all entered the arena in, he felt doubt. This couldn’t be real. This girl was far away, in the Capitol mortuary, if not already disposed of.  
He had to know. His hand, leaving the twisted mess of his pants, reached up, and he ignored how it shook. The air was tense and thick, and he felt as though he was pushing through solid concrete as his hand inched closer. His fingertips were almost there, a single strand of hair motionless in front of them. This had to be a hallucination. His hand would surely pass right through, break this trance and he could get on with his now decadent life. His fingers curled under the loose strand, and he looked again into her blank eyes. Lifting his hand up, the tip of his pointer finger pushed against the air, and in a moment, he thought, would most definitely feel the cool air, uninterrupted. 

“Cato, what are you doing?”

He jumped, falling backwards into an awkward stumble, hands curling into fists as he turned away from the image before him. It was Brutus. His shoulders relaxed, but only marginally. While his mentor had been proud, impressed even by his sudden change in odds during the finale of the games, Brutus was aptly named. A smile from that man gave a feeling of dread more intense than the Hunger Games ever could have. Time spent in his presence was time spent on high alert, even when his mind reasoned that Brutus had no desire to hurt him. Yet. 

“Cato, are you alright?” 

The voice was concerned, and it shifted oddly around him. Brutus was never concerned, not anymore, not now that his reputation as mentor was secure and untarnished. In his own words, Brutus had called him a true victor. The Apex Predator. One never felt concern for the predator.  
His eyes slid over to the girl impossibly standing before him. 

_Unless you were the prey._

Brutus didn’t see her. Couldn’t see her, if his calm stance beside him could be believed. His breathing was even, his body postured in such a way to seem authoritative and trustworthy at the same time. It put Cato’s teeth on edge, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. This man was a snake, a wolf hiding among sheep and nothing he did could ever cause Cato to forget that. And now, this man- _his mentor_ \- was looking at him with a gaze of unflinching concern, and Cato couldn’t comprehend it.  
Cato couldn’t tell him. That was abundantly clear. He’d heard the rumours, seen what had happened to past victors that couldn’t cope. A flash of red hair came to mind, the girl from Four. He shuddered. No, there was no way anyone could find out about this. He lifted his eyes, turning away from the spectacle before him. 

“I’m fine,” he looked at Brutus, one side of his mouth lifting in what he hoped was a sheepish, tired smile. 

He felt the way his mentor looked him over, saw the way his eyes focused on his own as though trying to coerce the truth from them. 

“Are you sure? I could ask one of the doctor’s to take a look at you. Don’t want our new victor to be out of sorts for the interviews tomorrow.”  
The words are a veiled threat, he can feel them slide down his spine, nailing their way into each and every vertebrate. The message is clear. _Don’t fail me now._  
He shrugged a shoulder, forcing the air through his vocal cords, shaping his mouth to create the desired sounds. _Act normal_ flows through his mind. 

“Yeah, just tired I think. It’s been a big day.” It’s a lousy excuse in any other circumstance, but tonight it’s not a lie. After being fixed up by the Capitol doctors, prepped by his stylists and mentors alike, he’d gone through the crowning ceremony. It was a circus. Large crowds, flashing lights, and President Snow presenting him with the Victor’s Crown. It was a sharp, dangerous affair. To screw up in any way was to undermine the games. To show any resistance, even as they force you to your knees to be laden with the heavy metal that served as a crown, meant trouble by way of drugged food and re-education. Or worse. It was truly exhausting, in ways the games could never be.  
Brutus, smart as he is, sees through it, and he can see the way his eyes slide over to where his had so persistently found themselves. However, Brutus steps away from him, appearing to let it go. A soft smile makes its way on his face, and Cato has never seen anything more terrifying. 

“Well then. If that’s the case our young victor best be getting to bed.” He turns, and takes a step down the hall and Cato has to bite his tongue because he is _right there_. An inch to the left and they would touch, or not, and he could finally discover if she would disappear.

“Shall we?” 

He’s paused too long. He has to follow him. Quickly. 

He lets out a breath, walks forward, and goes _through_ her. His heart races, his breath hitches and Cato swears he feels colder, emptier than before. He keeps walking, and refuses to look back. He follows Brutus to the elevator, his original destination, keeping his gaze forward and watching the muscles of Brutus’ shoulders clench and unclench as his arms move to match his strides.  
The elevator is cramped by comparison of the wide hall, and he can’t stand it any longer. As the doors begin to close, he looks. She’s still there, and hasn’t moved. He sees her back now, ripped and stained and just _there_ , unmoving. No breath causes her diaphragm to rise and fall. No restless shifting- the kind he had observed so keenly during training- moves her muscles. It’s unnatural.  
The doors close, and he doesn’t notice the breath he lets go until it echoes far too loudly in the small space. This time, he ignores Brutus’ questioning gaze, not turning to look at his mentor for fear of what he might show. Instead, he attempts to calm himself, to let the tiredness his body feels show. To diffuse suspicion that there is something more wrong with him than simple exhaustion.  
He knows it doesn’t work. 

~  
The water of the shower is hot. It scalds his skin and forces his muscles into submission, leaving him with the feeling of melting under the heat. As it is, he’s practically jelly, slumped forward in a haphazard sprawl on the shower floor. 

_Yet..._

He feels stiff. Tight. Like he’s trapped in his own skin and the shower cubical, whilst larger than anything he had used before, was constricting. He had thrown the glass door open after five minutes, and now the steam fills the bathroom. Every breath is wet, and it feels like he’s drowning. But he embraces it. All he can see are her eyes, all he can feel is the coldness that drove into him as he walked through her. Everywhere he looks, he expects to see her. But she has not reappeared, and he wonders if he were to travel back downstairs, go back to that corridor, if he would see her again. He can’t recall how long he’s been in here. An hour? More? Far longer than would have been acceptable back home. But here, long showers are customary, decadent baths the standard of good hygiene in this city. His thoughts flash briefly to what he had learned of Ancient Rome as a child, studied for their battle tactics, their entertainment. The Arena. Had their decadence and complacency not been their downfall? Idly, he ponders if that’s the fate of the Capitol. Of him, now that he’s won the games. A life of complacent riches and extravagant pleasures. 

The simple thought makes his skin itch, and he knows he would never cope.  
_Is he coping now?_

He’s seeing a dead girl. Cato’s fairly sure that couldn’t be counted as coping. 

He groans, head thrown back into the hard tile behind him. He is not coping. 

And Brutus knows this. 

_He’s fucked._


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not as long as I wanted to be, but hopefully still good.

The dawn rises far too early, it seems.  
In the Games, he reveled in the beginning of each day. Every rise of the sun, artificial or not, meant he had survived another day, meant he was closer to victory- to coming home.  
Here, the light reaching the far corners of the atmosphere and casting a pale blue across the sky, meant another day of pleasing the Capitol. Here, very few citizens would awake to the soft morning sky. In his district they would wake up with the sun, a day of training to be had. Here, they would sleep late, nothing but idle pleasure to occupy their time. Sure, they had work to do. _Careers_. In the districts, even his own which was comparatively well off, you had jobs. A place to spend your time each day with the hope of living a little longer, seeing a little more of your family or friends. Here they worked for _joy_.

This was something he couldn’t accept. It didn’t fit with anything he had previously experienced. 

This was something he had been told he would _have_ to accept. 

After all, he was a victor now. No longer was he required to work to survive. 

That didn’t mean to say that surviving was going to be easy. 

“Cato you’ve had more than enough time to get up. You have a big day today. If you’re not at breakfast in the next five minutes you aren’t getting any.”  
Brutus. 

That’s right. He did have a big day today. 

_He had the interview._

He felt the air leave him with a sigh, his body sinking back into the too soft bed with its silky sheets. He was so tired. He’d spent the night being unable to sleep. Every shadow in every corner looked like _her_ , and upon closing his eyes, he would feel the inadmissible twinge on his spine- warning him that he wasn’t alone. Logically he could have turned on the lights, cast those shadows out of existence. But, for perhaps one of the few times in his life, he was afraid. Shadows were one thing. But what if upon turning on the lights, she didn’t leave. 

_Was he going crazy?_

Surely, there should be other signs if he was. Didn’t that happen to crazy people? Didn’t they lose their faculties, stutter of their words, cut themselves off from the world. Or worse. No. He couldn’t be. He wasn’t like that. Besides, he hadn’t seen her again. Not like the before. It must have been stress. No. It _was_ stress.  
He sighed, forcing himself up from the bed, the sheets curling at his legs and dragging around him. The interview itself would occur later tonight, but he would spend all day prepping. His stylists would go to work, shaping them into the model they wanted. Brutus and the others would go over the itinerary. What Caesar would say, what he would have to reply. What _not_ to do. 

In fact, he could already feel the list. 

Stepping outside the sanctity of his room, not bothering to get dressed (why, when he would be forced to undress again in a few moments anyway) he walked down the hall and to the dining room. The table was filled with food, Avoxes hovering nervously around the space, eager to clean and be done with it.  
He could see a glare from Brutus already forming, directed at his old shorts most likely.  
It was going to be a long day.  
~  
Sometimes he hated it when he was right.  
He was right about the stylists, moulding his body into their creation. Tugging on his hair, tutting at the state of his eyes, tainted with sleep deprivation. They clawed at his skin, and he had to restrain himself from lashing out. It was their _career_ and this was his.  
He was right about the list.  
‘Don’t glare at anyone. It was okay before; you were meant to be intimidating. Not anymore.’  
‘Don’t sit like that, you look ungrateful.’  
‘Talk. No one word answers.’  
‘Be polite.’  
Of course, the underlying _you have to be happy because they’re happy_ remains.  
And last but not least, the one they drilled into him with every painted stroke of makeup, forced onto him with every rich fabric.  
_“Smile. Be Charming.”_  
Charming.  
After all, he wasn’t the favourite. Had killed the favourite. To avoid any form of wrath, they had to like him. He had to _make_ them like him. Quickly.  
He’d prefer to be back in the games.  
Sighing, he nodded his agreement, feigning that the stylist currently painting his lips a pink – ‘But manly’ his stylist had placated- hue was the reason for his silence. He knew what was at stake here. Knew he had to look good, had to be good, to gain the Capitol favour. It was going to be difficult, so much so he almost wished he’d just let Fire Girl win. At least then he’d be dead, where they couldn’t use him anymore than they already had. He shook the thought away. He was a survivor. A fighter. 

_“A Victor”, his mother claimed, patting his cheek in comfort._  
“You are a victor Cato. Remember that. You’re coming home.”  
He nodded his assurance, anything to stop his mother from making that face. Sadness and grim determination all rolled into one visage of concern.  
He would come home. No matter what it took. 

 

~  
_There’s something wrong with Pretty Boy._  
-The first thought that forced its way through Haymitch’s brain, booze addled as it was. In an ideal world, he would not be sitting here, a tight suit against his skin and a suspicious lack of alcohol on his person. And yet, here he was. The interview was about to start, and he- along with the other mentors- had been forced to sit in the front rows. An image of solidarity to welcome the new victor into the fold no doubt. They had been told after the games that the boy, whilst extremely wounded, would make a full recovery and be fit for the interview several days later. 

A _physical_ recovery at least. 

Because from where Haymitch was sitting, he could see the boy- pacing in the alcoves. He was fidgeting, hands twisting in his pants and if he didn’t know better he would say he kept looking back at an empty space behind him, the blank wall the new victors only company.  
He was most definitely nervous about something, and it sure didn’t seem like that something was the interview.  
_Has Wonder Boy lost it?_

He saw the boy- Cato, his mind finally supplied- freeze suddenly, before closing his eyes tight and Haymitch swore he could see his lips moving ever so slightly. 

_Did he ever have anything to start with?_  
~  
The lights were too bright. The noises too loud. It was overwhelming. 

_And the interview hadn’t even started yet._

He had to calm down. He couldn’t go out there like this. 

_She was there._

He had been fine, waiting in the wings of the stage by himself while his mentors had taken their seats. Nervous, though he’d never admit it, but fine. And then he saw her.  
He had felt a chill run down his spine and trail down his senses- only to turn and see her, motionless once more. He couldn’t stop the words that tipped out of his mouth, as nervous as he was. 

“Why are you here?” 

It was quiet, almost inaudible in the loud venue. 

There was no reply. 

He moved to go closer, when a wall of sound erupted from behind him. Loud screams and high pitched shrieks filled the air, piercing his ears and pounding into his head. 

_“Ladies and Gentlemen. You first saw him on this stage a month ago- one tribute out of twenty-four. Now he stands alone, a victor. Please welcome to the stage, The brutal, the fearsome, the oh so handsome… CATO!”_

He felt strange- his vision cloudy, but with a shake of his head he forced himself to turn away from her, taking a deep breath. He moved forward, stepping into the cloud of light and sound.  
The world span, and he forced his legs to move, to carry him further. He could see Caesars hand reaching out to his; a customary handshake, a show of civility. The noise grew higher, and he felt his kneecap falter for the briefest of moments. Felt the tremor up his body as his legs gave out.

Felt the collapse of his spine as it crumbled, no longer ramrod straight as it had been before. 

Through the haze now filtering through his mind, he saw a glimmer of concern out of artificially coloured eyes- saw Caesars mouth move rapidly. He heard nothing. A white blanket covered his senses and he felt like he was wading through damp cotton. 

_What has she done to me?_

He blacked out.


End file.
